


Lie a Little

by eva_roisin



Category: Avengers Academy, X-23 (Comic), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: F/M, friendship turned complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eva_roisin/pseuds/eva_roisin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While still adjusting to his new role as a teacher, Remy longs to see Laura again. When he's reunited with her, he makes a mistake that threatens to transform the nature of their friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He decides not to tell her that her gift arrived broken. The cup—a blue ceramic mug—didn’t survive its journey from California. When he pulls away the tissue paper and lays the pieces on his desk, he sees that its handle is chipped beyond repair. There will be no gluing this back together.

With the gift there is a letter written in Laura’s neat up-and-down handwriting. _Dear Gambit: I saw this and thought of you_ , it says. Then, her name.

The terseness of the letter isn’t unusual; Laura’s texts and emails are short and to-the-point. _Tonight we had pizza_ , she emailed a week ago. _Tomorrow we have the day off and are going to the beach_.

The week before that, she emailed him this: _Gambit, I’m glad to hear from you. Yes, the Avengers are treating me well. We have class during the day and practice at night, so I am busy but not overwhelmed. I hope that it is not too cold in New York. Please be safe. Laura_.

Remy saves these correspondences. He doesn’t delete them. To delete them would feel unlucky.

He decides to call her right then. He makes sure his door is closed and then picks up his phone.

She answers on the second ring. “Gambit.”

“Hey, _petite_ ,” he says. “Got your gift. What’d I do to deserve something so nice?”

“I am glad you received the package. The man at the post office said it would arrive today or tomorrow.”

He glances down at the pieces. The U.S. Postal Service—no wonder! “You busy right now?” He can hear city noises in the background.

“No more than usual.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I am happy to hear from you. I have something to ask.”

“Ask away,” he says.

Nothing in his life surprises him anymore, but he can’t help but wonder at this: his friendship with Logan’s quiet, self-possessed female clone. If you’d told him a year ago that he’d look forward to emails and phone calls from Laura—that she’d know more about him than he knew about himself—he’d be mystified. Open to the idea, but mystified nonetheless.

As she talks to him, he stands at his window, looking out onto the courtyard. The new school’s campus is beautiful—well-kept and important-looking. It’s been a mild winter, so they’ve held practices outside on the brown, spongy ground. He’s lucky to be here, lucky to have the X-Men, lucky to still have a job. Still, in California it’s three hours earlier and warmer, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not supposed to be here.  

***

An hour after he hangs up, he turns off his computer and shoves a bunch of ungraded papers into a folder. He’s not grading them now, he’s decided—he’ll have to grade them when he gets back to his room. A de facto homework assignment.

He checks his office, making sure the light is off and the place is tidy. After closing the blinds, he gives the place another once-over, checking that all his papers are put away and that nothing is left out—no incriminating evidence, no unguarded quizzes and tests.

He doesn’t know why he does this. He’s got no incriminating evidence, and he hasn’t yet even thought about the midterm. No one can steal it from his mind, let alone his office. He’s been having so many paranoid moments like this, feelings he can’t shake, and he doesn’t know _why_.

Perhaps it’s because the X-Men are fighting again. He’s not surprised about this—just glad he’s not the reason for all the drama. Still, this is a nasty divorce. Tragic that the kids have to sort through their loyalties, that they have to choose between the guy who doesn’t like children but wants to teach them, and the guy who likes them but wants them in the line of fire. Yeah, flip a coin for that.

When Logan first offered him a teaching job at the new school, he was flattered. Now he doesn’t know what he was thinking. Him, a teacher.

The kids don’t seem to take him seriously either. A couple of those little bastards have him by the balls—each day, Julian Keller and Santo sit in the back of the room and act either as a peanut gallery or an initiation crew. There’s nothing they won’t say or mock, nothing that’s off limits.

Santo’s basically harmless. He’s just trying to get girls to notice him, and Remy gets that. But Julian? With Julian it’s clearly personal. Each day he stares up at Gambit from behind his shaggy hair, his eyes two black coals of animosity. He’s even filed two complaints about Remy to Kitty Pryde. (Kitty said she knew the complaints were bullshit, but that she had to look into them anyway. It was a grand ass-covering that resulted in a short memo and a reminder not to share too many “personal details” in class.)

“We’re all under a lot of pressure here,” Kitty told him. “City on a hill, eyes of the world are on us, blah blah blah. So let’s not explain to them the great varieties of dildos unless we have to.”

“It was an honest question from a student, _chère_ ,” he said. “And it’s a sex-ed class. What am I s’posed to do? Say, ‘See me after class about dildos?’”

“We need to wait until the Julian thing blows over.”

Fat chance of that happening. When Julian isn’t skulking around the courtyard or promising to blow things up, he’s having emotional outbursts, crying jags. There are days when he doesn’t leave his room. Logan thinks he’s probably bipolar—it’s a common enough thing. But Remy knows the truth: he’s grieving the loss of Laura, a girl he never even had. Or was never all that nice to. Remy understands that—he understands how you can take a woman for granted and not realize it until it’s too late.

But he won’t go so far as to give Julian a pass. Remy did a lot of shitty things when he was younger, but he was never so _entitled._ He directed his anger and frustration at himself—made lousy decisions, ingested things he shouldn’t have. But he never went out of his way to hurt other people. Julian, on the other hand, has made it his personal mission to make life at the Institute a real shit show for everyone, especially Remy.

When Remy steps into the hallway to lock his office door, he inspects things to make sure they look okay. Last week there was a sign that said _I have no penis_. Two weeks before that: _NEEDED: Asian girls for social experiment involving bamboo cage. Will pay by the hour_.

Nothing on his door today, no evidence of Julian’s intellectual prowess. He hurries down the hallway and out into the courtyard, his folder under his arm. As he cuts across campus to head for the residential wing, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. It’s Rogue and a couple of students coming inside from outdoor practice.

Before he can turn away it’s too late. She sees him—and worse, she knows that he’s seen her. He could wave to her before heading inside, but that would seem rude and so obviously avoidant. Instead, he puts one hand in his pocket and waits by the door. They’ll have a stop-and-chat, he tells himself. That’s all. Just two colleagues sharing a moment outside. A shame that’s all there is between them these days—painful small-talk he could be having with anyone.

He misses her. It’s palpable.

“Hey you,” she says, bounding up the steps. She smiles and lets the other students shuffle past her and into the building.

“Good practice?” he says. He regards her carefully, reminding himself not to leer. Even though it’s cool outside, a fine line of sweat dots her upper lip. She looks great.

“Better than yesterday. Which is all any of us can hope for.” She smiles more broadly.

He smiles too, his mirror neurons kicking in. He wonders how long former lovers can smile at each other before something primal happens.

She gives him the once-over and then gestures to his folder. “Your uterus is hanging out.”

“What? Oh.” He chuckles and checks the folder. One of his tests has flapped loose. “Technically it ain’t _my_ uterus. It’s Victor’s. And it’s not just a uterus but the entire female reproductive system. I think he did a good job on it.” He holds up the diagram . . . to show her what? Something she doesn’t know?

Thankfully, she smoothes over the awkwardness with a laugh. “Go Victor.”

He slips the test back into his file and reaches for the door.

“So how was your day?” she asks as they clamor into the stairwell.

“Good,” he says. “I’m goin’ to California. I mean—” She turns her head sharply to look at him. “To see Laura at her new school.”

“Oh,” she says, “that’s wonderful!” She pats his arm as they go up the stairs, and he can’t help but wonder if her gesture isn’t relieved. At least he’s got _something_ good in his life. “Laura must be lonely out there. Hope she knows she’s lucky to have a friend who’ll fly all that way to cheer her up.”

“I’m the one who’s lucky,” he says, but not as forcefully as he should. He doesn’t know what possessed him to share this information with Rogue. He hasn’t even run it by Logan yet. What if Logan doesn’t let him take the time off? (Logan better give him the time off. It’s the least he can do.)

“You goin’ at the end of this month?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Their spring break overlaps with ours. Takin’ the weekend.”

“It’ll be fun to get out of here.”

“I know, right?” They stop at the top of the stairs and face each other. “This place is more a zoo than I remember.”

“I _know_ , Remy,” she says, her eyes wide with empathy and exasperation. “If we’re not saving the school from some wrecking crew then we’re keepin’ the kids from rippin’ the toilets out of the floor.”

“That was the boys’ wing yesterday,” he says, relieved for this faculty bitch session. As teachers, it’s something they can always fall back on. When they have nothing else in common, they’ll still have an endless litany about teenagers doing the darndest things. The in-class texting! The cheating! The blatant disrespect!

“And lord knows how my class is going. I have a feeling that my evaluations are gonna to make me want to start a bonfire.”

“Count me in,” Remy says. He smiles. The conversation is wrapping up nicely. He hasn’t said anything too emotional—nothing that will come back to bite him in the ass later. He feels like a guilty man who’s been given a reprieve.

“See you around, Remy,” she says as she turns to go in the opposite direction. She gives him a wave.

“See ya,” he says. 

***

Julian blames Remy for the fact that Laura’s gone. He’s told everyone that Remy’s a pervert—that he stole Laura away and ruined her with European culture and told her that she was hot shit, too good for the X-Men.  The story circulates. It comes back to Remy a dozen different ways. No one really believes it—not the students, not the other teachers—but it sticks with him nonetheless, like an unpleasant taste.

But Remy didn’t want to see Laura go, either. If it had been up to him, she would have stayed.

That’s the thing. Julian might blame him for her departure, but secretly Remy blames Logan. He thinks Logan should have made a bigger play for her. He should have told her how much he wanted her here. Shit, he should have promised her a pony and a little red car and a full ride to Harvard.

Even if he had, that’s not what would have kept Laura around. Laura would have stayed if Logan had told her that he wanted her to stay. All he had to do was say the word.

Remy’s given up on making Logan see the error of his ways. They’ve had half a dozen tense conversations about it, all of them ending with Logan saying things like, “X is a different kind of girl,” or “she wanted a new start.” And maybe Logan’s right. Maybe Laura did deserve a new start after all that’s happened. But what he wants to say—and doesn’t, to his credit—is that attending a fancy academy doesn’t make up for the fact that your dad doesn’t want you studying at _his_.

When Laura got into that jam with the FF and was unconscious for a few days, Remy called Logan constantly. Every few hours. It didn’t matter because Logan didn’t answer. His phone was turned off. He was in the field. He was with X-Force. Whatever. Remy left six or eight messages. He paced the halls of the Baxter Building. He ducked into the stairwell. The tone of his messages became more hostile, more desperate. Who went days without turning on his phone? (Logan, of course.) “You need to _pick up_ , Logan,” he said, crouched on the stairs. “ _Mon Dieu_ , it’s serious. Get your ass to Manhattan. Don’t give a shit what it takes.”

Then he called Kitty. And then Hank. And neither of them could get in touch with Logan either.

By the time Logan called him back two days later, Laura had come out of her coma. She was sleeping in the infirmary. Sue thought she might be groggy for few more days, so Remy went into the hallway to take the call.

“What the hell’s going on?” Logan said. He sounded anxious.

“It’s Laura,” Remy said. He leaned against the doorjamb. “Listen, she’s okay. She was in some kind of coma but she’s awake now.”

“What the fuck? Where the fuck are you?”

“I’m—” He dropped his hand. “Didn’t you get my messages, _homme_? We’re at the Baxter Building.”

“The Baxter Building? Huh?”

“We’re—” Remy switched the phone to his other ear. “I left all of this on your voicemail.”

“I had a shit ton of messages and missed calls from you, Gumbo. They ran down my battery. I only listened to the first one, and it was insane. So Laura’s fine?”

“She’s fine now,” Remy said. “Sleeping.”

“Good.” Logan seemed to sigh.

“Not ‘good.’ Where the fuck—” Remy collected himself. “How soon can you be here?”

Logan went quiet for a second. Then he made a sound that sounded like a cross between a sigh and a grunt. “It’ll take me a good fucking while. Everything’s gone to shit out here. You wouldn’t believe the crap that Scott’s pulling now. It’s gonna be hard for me to slip away, and I’m on the other side of the country besides.”

“You need to book a flight—”

“Is Reed looking after her? What does he say about her condition?”

Remy thought for a moment and then conceded: “That she’s fine.” He closed his eyes and tried not to shake his head. He hated how Logan always engineered each conversation to get the answers he wanted, backing Remy into a corner so he couldn’t prevaricate. After all, no one could argue with a Reed Richards diagnosis.

“You got this, right?” Logan said. “You’ll let me know if anything changes?” A pause. “X is a tough girl.”

“Listen, Logan,” Remy said, moving away from the door of the infirmary. He lowered his voice. “I don’t care what kind of shit special X-Force has gotten itself into this week. But it’d do her good to see you when she wakes up. Speed the healin’ process. All that.”

“Yeah, but you know you’re better at that shit than I am,” Logan said. “If she’s with you, then no worries here.”

More inarguable Wolverine logic. No wonder this guy ran every team in the country! He just made up the rules as he went along.

“Fuck that,” Remy said. “You should be here with her, _ami_. Not me. You. You’re her family.”

Three thousand miles away, Logan seemed to wince. _Family_ was a fact he couldn’t argue his way out of. “I know. It’s shitty. I feel like shit, believe me.” He paused. “Under normal circumstances I would come. But this whole thing is—ah, damnit. I’m not gonna fill your ear with excuses. I have no real excuse. I just can’t make it. And I know X is . . . strong. With you there, she probably won’t even miss me. Right?”

Remy didn’t say anything. _If it was Jubilee you would come_ , he thought. _If it was Kitty you would have been on a plane yesterday_. What kept him from trotting out such pronouncements was Logan’s low, penitent tone. By folding so easily, Logan made a public trouncing almost impossible. __

The next day, when Laura was well enough to move around, she confessed to him that she was hungry. Not just a little hungry, not just hungry for the chicken noodle soup and healthy macrobiotic shit that Sue kept around, but super-atomically hungry.

“You want pizza, _petite_?” he said. “I’ll go out and get it.”

“I want to go too.”

The city was windy and cool, autumn coming on. Laura looked cold, so Remy took her to the nearest place he could find. They ducked into a pizza parlor and ordered two large pies, one pepperoni, one onion and hot pepper. Laura did most of the eating. Remy watched her and chatted and checked his phone for messages.  

When Laura finished with the onions and the hot peppers, she started on the pepperoni. “Logan called me this morning.”

“Oh?” He put his cell phone aside.

“While you were at breakfast. He wanted to know if I was alright.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I was fine.” She folded her piece of pizza in half. “He said that he talked to you yesterday. But I did not know that. You did not tell me.”

“I didn’t get a chance,” he said, sitting up straight. “Listen, _petite._ Logan wanted to come see you but apparently there’s this . . . shittiness . . . out in California. I was gonna tell you today but lost track.”

Laura shook her head. “Logan did not have to come. I am fine. He said he knew this, and that’s why he didn’t come.”

“Yeah, but he _would_ have come, though. To see you. If he could have. But he just couldn’t get away.”

“Logan understands my healing factor like no one else. And that I will always be fine. You know, in X-Force—”

He waited for her to finish her thought, but instead she trailed off. He was almost glad for that. He’d heard too much about X-Force.

“I am always fine,” she reiterated.

Remy waited a beat. “Of course we all knew you were going to be fine,” he said, even though he’d spent several tense hours preparing for the worst. “But we were still concerned. And so was Logan. He would have come to see you. He just got all tied up on the other side of the country.”

“Gambit,” Laura said. She set her pizza down and placed her hands on either side of her plate. She looked at him.

Remy knew he was about to be called out, leaned into, laid bare. Laura never let him get away with anything; she always met him on his feet. He never really believed that she was sixteen.

She said, “I know you want to make me feel better. But you do not need to. I know what Logan and I are to each other. He is not my father, Gambit. Not even when he wants to be.”

“That ain’t true. Logan cares for you a lot.”

“He does,” she admitted. “But caring for someone . . . and being a father . . . these are two different things.” She looked down at her plate. “I am not really his child. I am his clone.”

“That’s immaterial.”

“I have always been something of a burden to him.”

He was still for a moment; then he pressed his hand to his chin. “That’s not true. That’s just not—I can’t imagine . . .” _I can’t imagine you being a burden to anybody._ Which was not the same thing as _Logan does not consider you a burden_.

“Imagine if you were Logan,” Laura continued. “How would feel about me?”

He swallowed. “That you’re great.”

“I am evidence,” she said. “Of what happened to him.”

“No.” He sat up and shook his head. “ _Petite_. You can’t—” He stopped himself. What was he going to tell her? That she couldn’t think of herself that way? That if he thought of his own existence in such brutally reductive terms he’d never make it through a single week? Who was he to tell her how to think about herself?

“You do not have to lie to me, Gambit,” Laura said. “Not about Wolverine . . . or anything.”

His throat tightened. “Not even a little?” he said, his breath catching.

Outside the window, people zipped up their jackets and rushed to get out of the cold. 

***

The night before he’s scheduled to fly to California to see Laura, Julian comes to his door. It’s late and he’s making some last minute additions to his bag. He’s trying to decide whether or not to pack sneakers when Julian knocks.

In the hallway, Julian looks like he always does: disheveled, nervous, and a little bit hostile.

Lately Julian hasn’t misbehaved in class. However, he’s still taping things to Remy’s office door. Last week, Remy arrived at his office in the morning to find a picture of a big bloated face with red and black eyes. When he got closer, he discovered that the face was a copy of a diagram he’d passed out in class—a diagram of the male reproductive system. The penis was meant to be his nose, the testicles his chin.

“Mr. Keller,” Remy says. “What can I do for you?”

Julian holds out an envelope. He looks Remy straight in the face and doesn’t flinch. “You’re going to see Laura, right? I need you to give this to her.”

Remy stares at the envelope. Julian doesn’t drop his hand.

“I don’t—” Remy begins. “I think you should send it to her in the mail, Julian. If you want, I can give you a stamp.”

Julian continues to hold out the envelope. “That’s bullshit. You’re flying across the country to see her and you offer me a stamp instead? How does that make sense?”

“It makes sense,” Remy says, clutching the door, “because I’m not givin’ her anything that will upset her. Is that clear enough for you?”

Julian lets his arm drop. “I’m sorry.” He looks down. “I don’t want to upset her. My letter is an apology. For some of the things I said to her. I just want to tell her—I’m sorry—”

Julian takes a big breath and puffs up his chest. He’s trying not to cry.

Remy doesn’t say anything, so Julian takes the opportunity to elaborate. “What I said was horrible.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t deserve her forgiveness. I like, hate myself for what I said to her. And now it’s over and I can’t take it back . . .” He pulls his arms tighter and looks down. His shoulders begin to shake.

Remy doesn’t know what happened between Julian and Laura, and he doesn’t want to know either. Still, it’s time to step in here. He doesn’t want another public Keller meltdown. “It’s okay,” he says quickly, even if it’s not—even if the last thing he wants to do is give Keller a pass.

“I just want to apologize,” Julian squeaks out. His breathing hastens.

Remy holds out his arm. Then he regrets the gesture, worried that Julian will see it as an invitation to hug.

Luckily, Julian ignores it. He pushes past him and staggers into the bedroom. Sinking onto Remy’s mattress, he hangs his head and sobs quietly.

Remy doesn’t know what to do, so he closes the door over and stands in the middle of his bedroom.

Julian glances up at him. He wipes his eyes and nose on his sleeve. Fat tears continue to roll down his cheeks, and his face is wet and messy.

“Here,” Remy says. He picks up the box of tissues on his desk and hands it to Julian. “You’ll be okay. You just need to cry it out.”

Julian sets his letter on the bed and reaches for a tissue. “Thanks.” He scratches his shoulder. Then he scratches his chest. Then he looks up at Remy. He’s waiting for something. A benediction? A word of advice?

“You’ve been having a hard time,” Remy says. (This is all he can do: state the obvious.)

Julian nods.

“Well, sometimes these things just happen. And sometimes we say things we don’t mean. Sometimes we’re careless with people’s feelings. Sometimes we treat people wrong.”

Julian stares up at him. His mood shifts—like he can’t believe he’s sitting through such a pointless, banal little iteration of _we always hurt the ones we love_.

“Important thing is to move forward,” Remy continues. “Learn from your mistakes so that next time you treat someone right.”

Julian swallows and squeezes the tissue into a ball. Remy reminds himself not to look too long at Julian’s prosthetic hands, but he still secretly marvels at how well they function. They’re very much like the real thing.

“Is that what happened between you and your girlfriend?” Julian says. “Is that why she left you for Old Crusty?”

Remy says nothing.

Julian realizes that he’s just ventured into dangerous territory. “Sorry,” he says.

Remy leans against his desk, deciding whether or not to accept the apology. His own personal distaste for Julian aside, he just doesn’t feel like blowing things out of proportion. “It’s alright. Here.” He holds out his hand, suddenly eager to prove himself the bigger person. “I’ll take your letter.”

Julian scratches his arm again and then hands Remy the letter. “Thanks, man.”

As Remy takes the letter from Julian, he wonders if he hasn’t been had. Maybe Julian has just maneuvered things to get what he wanted. But no, Julian’s tears were real. Even now he’s still wiping his eyes. A glob of snot glistens on his upper lip.

Julian straightens and stands in front of Remy. “Can I ask you something else?”

Remy prepares for a personal question. Something about sex. “Go ahead.”

“Victor said you have an amazing collection of nineties CDs? I was wondering if I could look?”

Relieved, Remy gestures to the stand in the corner.

Julian goes over and studies the collection, bending forward at the waist. “Wow,” he says occasionally. “Cool.”

Remy pretends to be straightening his desk, double-checking his flight itinerary, going over the Mapquests he printed out earlier in the day. When he gets to LAX, he’s renting a car to drive to Avengers Academy. “See anything you like?”

“Yeah, sure.” Silence. Then Julian says: “You know, I heard that song ‘Alive,’ by Pearl Jam? Was about something that really happened to him. The lead singer, I mean.”

“Really,” Remy says, pretending to be interested—pretending he doesn’t already know, that he didn’t spend his youth secretly identifying with Eddie Vedder’s desire to unburden himself of parental issues.

“Yeah, like he always thought this one guy was his father. Then it turned out to not be his father. And his mother told him that his real father who’d been like, alive for most of his life? Was dead.”

“You like Pearl Jam?”

“I guess.” Julian turns around. He’s holding a CD. “Would you care if I borrowed this? I just want to put it in my iTunes.”

It’s _OK Computer_. Remy’s a little surprised. He nods and hopes for the best. Maybe Julian will allow himself to be opened up by the music—changed, perhaps, by Thom Yorke’s millennial anxieties. Isn’t that what this entire educational enterprise is all about? The transformative power of art?

Before Remy can question whether or not he believes this, Julian says, “Thanks, Mr. LeBeau. For everything. I’ll get this back to you.” He scratches his chest one more time and then leaves the room.

Remy stands there for a few seconds, bewildered by the interaction. Did he just imagine it? Before he can decide, there’s another knock at his door. It’s Logan.

“You’re packing?” Logan grips the door and leans into his room to look.

“Did you run into Julian?” Remy asks. “He was just here. It was the weirdest thing, _homme_.”

“Julian? I didn’t see him. What’d he want?”

Remy shrugs a takes a swig from a water bottle on his desk. “A favor. You know, kid’s a real hot mess. Kept crying and shit. You might wanna look into that.”

“Crying? Jesus, what did you say to him?”

“What did I say? No, I’m tellin’ you, he needs help.” With Logan it’s always like this. They’re always talking past each other, never on the same page. “Plus, he was scratching himself. Like he’s got some kind of skin condition.”

“Scratching himself, huh. Bring back memories of that time you brought somethin’ extra back from the city?” He reaches forward as if to punch Remy in the gut.

Remy brings his hands up to block. He knows Logan is trying to be affectionate, but he’s just not in the mood. “Are you asking my professional opinion? No, I don’t think he’s got _crabs_.”

“I’ll look into it. In the meantime—” Logan takes a folded check out of his shirt pocket. “Make sure X puts this in her bank account.”

Remy unfolds the check. Fifty dollars. “This is for the week, right? Not the semester, I hope.”

“What?"

“Never mind.” Remy reaches over to zip up his duffle back and put it on the chair. He tucks the check in his wallet.

“Well, have a nice time,” Logan says, lingering. “Rachel’s covering for you?”

“Yep.”

“Any big plans for what you’ll do?”

“Nothin’ definite.” He imagines he’ll see the campus. Maybe they’ll go together to see a play. Then he glances over at Logan, realizing that the man is hungry for something more. “Listen, Logan. Maybe you should go see her. You want my ticket? She’d probably be thrilled to see you.”

Logan pauses for a second. Like he’s considering. Then he says: “You shitting me? I get off that plane instead of you and she’ll be devastated.”

Remy doesn’t say anything. Logan’s probably right.

“Okay then,” Logan says. “Well, tell her not to spend that money all in one place.”

“Don’t think it’ll be a problem,” Remy starts to say, but when he looks up he realizes that Logan is already gone, disappearing back down the hall as quickly as he came.


	2. Chapter 2

Remy wakes up hours before dawn, takes a shower and brushes his teeth. It’s such a long drive to the airport, and so early, that he didn’t bother asking anyone to drive him. He’s leaving his car in long-term parking.

Outside the air is cold and still, stagnant and hibernating. He hates winter and wishes it would end already. When he gets into his car, he doesn’t bother to turn the heat on yet because he knows the vents will blow nothing but cold air. As he turns onto the two-lane highway that will take him away from the Westchester County countryside, he flips on his radio and then switches over to his tape deck.

The cassette in his tape deck is labeled _Rogue_ , and when he listens to it he feels queasy, excited, nostalgic, and a little bit sick. He has some private rituals—the need to torture himself with better, brighter memories. He wonders why. Does he want to be punished? Or does he secretly believe he can summon good times back to him?

That had been a good summer. A good Westchester County summer. Not much had happened, and it had finally seemed like all that Sinister bullshit was behind him. The weather was beautiful and calm, and every weekend he and some of the others went down to Long Island Sound.

He remembers what it was like to be in love with Rogue.

In the evenings, when fireflies started to puncture the landscape, he and Rogue would sit on the hammock together and listen to music and laugh and talk. She’d swat him when he got a little too close, but she wasn’t ever really angry with him. Not then. “Let’s go to California,” he said to her while “California Stars” played from the stereo.

“I’ve been,” she said. “It’s not that great.”

“Hell, I been too. But not with you. C’mon, _chère_ , let’s go. Right now.”

But neither of them went anywhere. Summer in Westchester was too good to pass up.

He made her the tape at the end of the summer. Six weeks later she gave it back to him, along with a shoebox of his personal effects. Standing in his doorway, eyes shining and angry, she thrust the box into his arms. The box held a book and a tee-shirt and some letters he’d written her—all of them smudged with tears. “I didn’t mean it, _chère,_ ” he said.

She inhaled a few times and didn’t speak. Remy saw that she was trying not to sob. “I know,” she said finally, her voice flat. “You never mean it. It’s just who you are.” And then she turned away.

It was that moment—that moment of turning-away—that Remy has remembered for the rest of his life. No matter what else happened between him and Rogue, he’d always picture her moving away from him, her shoulders hunched, her body shaking with tears. They’ve had a hundred fights. All of them have felt like an echo of that one.

Finally he arrives at the airport. It’s just becoming light outside. He leaves his car and waits for the shuttle that will take him to the terminal. In California it’s three hours earlier—the middle of the night. Laura should be sleeping, so he can’t call her. He wishes he could, or that he could text someone. He’s in such a good mood about being able to leave New York that he can hardly contain himself.

Once inside the airport, he prints his boarding pass and moves quickly through security. He gets a cup of coffee at a Starbucks, and after drinking it his hands shake. He thinks about Julian’s letter—in his coat pocket—and wonders if he shouldn’t open it. He decides not to. Still, he can’t shake the excited, half-sick feeling of getting away with something. 

***

When the plane lands in California, he reaches for his phone and turns it on. He’s not yet off the plane yet when it vibrates. It’s Laura.

“You have landed.”

“How did you know?”

“I tracked your flight online. Now I’m downstairs in the baggage claim.”

Laura wasn’t supposed to meet him at the airport; he was going to rent a car and drive to the Avengers Academy. This is a surprise, a pleasant surprise.

He picks up the pace and leaves the gate, passing the security guards. Locating the escalator, he takes the steps two at a time. And then he sees her standing next to the conveyor belt. She’s just the same as he remembered her: hair down her back, blue top and dark pants, black shoes.

He reaches for her. _“Petite_ ,” he says.

“Gambit.” She turns and walks into his arms.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he says, squeezing her and touching her hair. “Your hair’s longer.”

She pulls away and looks up at him. Her gaze is intense, evaluative. “It is the same length as when you last saw me.”

“You look fantastic. Los Angeles is good for you.”

“It is as Jubilee said it would be. Gambit—” she gestures to the woman standing next to her—“this is Tigra. She is my teacher at the academy. Tigra, Gambit. My friend from the X-Men.”

“Of course,” Tigra says, and Remy says “Oh” at the same time. He’s surprised. He hadn’t noticed Tigra there before. He’d assumed that Laura had come alone. (But why did he assume this? _Of course_ she didn’t come alone—she’s a student at a boarding school. A kid. The Avengers probably don’t let the kids wander around Los Angeles by themselves. Unlike the X-Men, whose students regularly roam the streets of Manhattan.)

“Nice to see you,” he says. He holds out his hand and tries to ignore the fact that in his other hand he’s holding a copy of _Us_ magazine with the guy from _The Bachelor_ on the cover. He’d picked it up in the airplane. If he’d known that Laura had brought a grown-up with her, he would have tossed it before he got to the baggage claim.

“Did you have a good flight?” Tigra asks, shaking his hand. She smiles politely.

“No bumps, no complaints.”

“Do you have a suitcase you need to pick up?”

“Oh no. I didn’t check any bags.” He points to the duffel bag slung over his shoulder as if proud of his minimalism.

They stand there smiling at each other, having run out of pleasantries.

This awkwardness is precisely why Remy doesn’t mingle with other superheroes. He never has anything valuable to say and he always feels like he’s being judged. People on other teams—the Avengers, the FF—they have an air of legitimacy about them. They’re _dead serious_ about this saving-the-world thing while he’s just moonlighting. Being a hero is not really a calling for him. If the X-Men hadn’t taken him in, he’d probably be counting cards in Vegas.

“Has the weather been good here?” he says finally.

“Yes, it’s wonderful.”

“Well, that’s what’s important.” Remy sets himself in the direction of the exit, hoping to ease everything along. “I was, um,” he starts to say.

At the same time, Tigra says, “I’m parked in the garage on the other side of ground transportation. Short-term parking. We’ll give you a lift.”

“Oh, thanks,” he says, trying to sound genuinely appreciative. “But I’d been plannin’ on renting a car. I mean, I thought that would make it easier to get around? Southern California and all.” He glances at Laura. He’d been hoping they could drive into the city. See Hollywood. Go to the beach. He hadn’t been planning on staying at the Academy but at a hotel nearby. The last thing he wants out of this vacation is a room at another boarding school and a place at the breakfast table with a bunch of superheroes.

“Oh, sure,” Tigra says, so easily that it seems like she’d known his plan. “But we can give you a lift to the car rental place.”

“Maybe we should drive you to a car rental place outside the airport limits so that the taxes and fees won’t be so exorbitant,” Laura adds.

“That’s alright,” Remy says. “Gotta get back to the airport in a few days anyway. You pay for the convenience of that.” He doesn’t want to spend anymore time in a car with Tigra than he has to. It’s nothing personal—just how he rolls.

“Then we’ll drop you up the road,” she says.

The short drive isn’t as awkward as Remy thought it would be. Laura sits in the back and looks out the window, and Tigra chats over the sound of the pop music on the radio. Remy marvels at the fact that earlier that morning he’d been listening to his favorite nineties songs, a far cry from the non-dynamic shit Tigra’s playing.

At last they reach the car rental place. Remy grabs his bag and opens the car door, leaning down to thank Tigra. Laura also unbuckles her seatbelt and exits the car. “I am coming with you,” she tells him.

“You want to join us for lunch?” Remy asks, leaning through the open window.

“That’s alright,” she says. “I have to get back. Enjoy yourselves. Be good, Laura.”

After Tigra drives off, they look at each other. He smiles at her. It’s the first time he’s seen her—really seen her—in almost three months. “You _do_ look different,” he says. “Tan.”

“I do not tan.”

“Well, your hair is different. Did you color it?”

“Gambit, I do not color my hair. I do not think my hair is capable of absorbing color. It is too dark.” She stares at him for a moment, and her face softens. “I have decided to part it on the other side.”

“That’s what’s different about you.” He pulls his cards from his pocket and shuffles. “Pick one.” 

***

In southern California the Mexican food is, as always, better than it is on the East coast. It’s got more of a kick to it, but it’s not just spicy for the sake of being spicy. He and Laura eat outside on a sidewalk, an umbrella shading them from the noonday sun. He’s got his cards spread out on the table in front of him.

“I do not believe in divination,” Laura says, “but I am always curious to hear how you interpret your cards.” She leans forward, her elbows on the table. “Your interpretation says more about you than it says about me.”

“Oh no,” he says, glancing down. “There’s magic in these cards. Real magic, _petite_.”

“Judgments always say more about the person doing the judging than the one being judged.”

He looks up at her and wonders if Logan told her that. He doubts it. Logan would never be so self-reflexive. Maybe she’s quoting an Avenger.

“The cards tell me you’re happy.” He lingers over the ace of hearts. The recent change of residence, the happy home. He taps the queen of clubs. “You’ve seen Jubilee.”

Laura doesn’t move.

“Has she asked about me?”

For a moment Laura looks thoughtful. “No, not—sometimes.”

He’ll take that as a no.

“She and I are not supposed to correspond,” Laura says.

“Ah.” Yes, the divorce. “Well, ignore that little decree. Don’t let some other guy’s bullshit come between you and your friends.” That’s advice he wishes he’d taken more often. “You’ve also seen—” he passes his hand over the cards—“the Kardashians. In person.”

She hunches over the table. “How did you know?”

“It’s all right here.” He points at the spread.

“Which Kardashians?”

“How the hell am I s’posed to know? The cards don’t know one Kardashian from another.”

Laura studies him. She almost smiles. “You are bluffing.”

“I am,” he admits. “But I’m not bluffing about this, honey child.” He points to the eight of hearts. “This is the party card. It’s telling you to live it up, and hell, I’m going to. I’m gonna have another drink.” It’s only noon, but he’s already killed one beer. He holds up his glass for the waitress to see. “You want one?”

“Gambit, I have not yet reached the legal drinking age.”

“We can fudge. Didn’t the Avenger kids set you up with a fake ID?”

“We do not do things like that here. It’s not like with the X-Men.”

That statement almost gets him to put his glass down. Almost, but not quite. The X-Men have a bit of a reputation for being the team that parties the hardest. And from what Remy’s observed, the reputation is deserved. Between him and Wolverine and Piotr Rasputin—hell, even Scott Summers—they’ve closed quite a few bars. They’ve _always_ been like that, though it used to be worse. There’s just something about being an X-Man that fuels one’s most self-destructive impulses. Perhaps it’s the feeling of immortality that comes with having an x-gene. Perhaps it’s because they feel like they’re living in the end times. Or perhaps it’s the not-so-paranoid suspicion that the world wants to rub them out.

Without meaning to, he’s thinking back to that good summer in Westchester County. They partied all the time then, all of them. They went to the local bars. They went to concerts. They had outdoor barbecues. They went to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers at Madison Square Garden, and even Scott got trashed as they waited for the band to take the stage. He loved the band, knew all their songs. Every so often, regardless of what was going on around them, he’d raise his beer in the air and sing, “How long, how long will I _slide_.” And he’d get Remy to sing it with him. And everyone would laugh. Jean was there, and she got him to shut up with a kiss.

And as Remy looked at Scott and Jean, he thought about Rogue and what he would say to her that night when they left the concert. _No one’s ever made me feel the way you do. Chère, I can’t imagine a future without you_. _Children? Let’s have a baseball team. Mutation? Fuck it_.

Even after Jean Grey died, they all still drank. Shit, they drank _more_ after she died. They started at noon. They drank wherever and whenever they felt like it—in the school, in their rooms, whenever they were trying to get their work done. They knocked back vodkas and double scotches during the day. They got very _Mad Men_ about it. Charles told them to cut it out—said workplace drinking was unbecoming of a superhero team, made them look like alcoholics. “C’mon Professor, I’ve done some of my best work soused,” Remy said, and Logan said, “He has. It’s terrifying.” But Charles was not amused. The point was taken. The drinking became less visible. Even so, Remy knows that Emma and Scott got serious over some three-martini lunch.

“Gambit,” Laura says, “Gambit, I must tell you something.”

He’s still holding his glass up when Laura says this. He takes his eyes off the waitress, who has just acknowledged him. “What’s up, _petite_?”

“Gambit, I—”

The waitress materializes next to their table. “Another one?” she says.

“Please,” Remy says, handing over his glass. He tries to shake off the slight prickle of her judgment. (But why would she judge him? It’s Los Angeles for god’s sake—the city that keeps rehab in business. She stands to make a killing from alcoholics’ tips.)

“Sorry,” Remy says, turning his attention back to Laura. “What were you saying?”

Laura presses her hands against the edge of the table. She looks at him, uncharacteristically tense. “Gambit, I have missed you.”

“Oh, I’ve missed you too.” He’s a little surprised by her declaration—Laura’s never so forward. He wanted to tell first thing that he missed her but worried that she would be wary of his sentimentality. “Looked forward to this trip a lot. Kept thinkin’ about all the times we had last year.”

“Me too,” she admits. She inhales and pauses. “I have few fond memories of my life. The time I spent with you . . . those are good memories. I miss you greatly.”

He eases his arm onto the table and stretches toward her. “You wanna come home?”

“This is my home now.”

“I know, but—you’ll always have a home with us. If you ain’t happy here—”

“I am,” she says. “That’s why this is difficult. I am content here, but I am occasionally homesick. My feelings about my situation are highly complex. I am not used to feeling pulled in two different directions.” Without looking at him, she reaches for his arm. Then she slides her hand along the inside of his forearm and keeps it there.

“The kids out here in California any better than the ones in Westchester?”

“They are fine. They are kids.”

“Julian wrote you a letter,” he blurts out, and then hates himself a little bit for what he’s just said. Why has he chosen to ruin this precise moment with Julian’s letter? Now he’ll have to give it to her, and it might just destroy her mood. As he retrieves it from his pocket, he wishes he’d read it first.

She takes her hand away.

“You don’t have to read it if you don’t want, _petite_ ,” he says, setting it on the table.

“No, it is okay.” She takes it from underneath his fingertips. Quietly she tears open the envelope, removes the letter, and unfolds it.

Mercifully, his beer arrives. As she reads the letter, he tries not to watch her too closely. He takes a few long gulps.

She puts the letter down but doesn’t look up at him. Folding it, she slips it back into the envelope and then sets it on the table.

“Anything important?” Remy says.

“Not really.”

He plays with his coaster and takes another sip.

“He says he is sorry for the things he said to me. That’s all.”

“He ought to be sorry.” He wonders if he should ask her what Julian said to make her so upset. But he gets the sense that she doesn’t want to talk about it. “Well.”

She tucks her hands under her lap and shrugs at him.

“I’ll get her to bring over the check,” he says. “Anything particular you wanna do?”

“I have tickets to see a comedian. A comedian you like.” She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out two tickets.

“No shit,” he says, gathering up his cards. “You shouldn’t have.” He studies her. “You like this guy? He make you laugh?”

“I do not watch him. I don’t watch TV at the Academy. But I remember that you used to watch him last year, and I did find his observations somewhat amusing.”

When they get up from the table, he squeezes her shoulders. She leads him out of the patio. 

***

The show isn’t for hours, so they have time to kill. They ride up the Los Angeles freeway system with the windows down, the wind blowing their hair. Remy stays in the carpool lane and goes fast. “You wanna show me the Academy?” he says.

“We can do that later. Today I am grateful to be away from school.”

“I hear ya.” He’s glad he doesn’t have to make nice with any Avengers right now. With Laura he feels comfortable—like himself. Like he can finally relax again. He doesn’t have to be the good teacher or the dutiful X-Man. He can toss back two beers at lunch and speed down the freeway in the carpool lane.

“I have volleyball practice tomorrow morning, so I must be there for that.”

“Volleyball? You any good?”

“I am the best.”

He smiles. It’s not that Laura is immodest. It’s that she’s honest. “You ever play it on the beach?”

“At Utopia.”

“That was no beach,” he says. Encouraged, he changes lanes and heads in the direction of the water. 

***

Laura trounces him at beach volleyball. She is, of course, more serious about competitive sports than he is, but even so it’s comical.

“I can’t keep up with you,” he says, trotting in front of his side of the net. The sun beats down on them, but it’s not hot. It’s still just March and the weather is perfect, cool ocean breeze and all.

Laura shields her eyes. “You are not trying.”

“I am.”

“Volleyball is about _strategy_ , Gambit. Same as anything. Same as chess. Same as cards. It’s logic and opportunity.”

“Serve her up again.”

Laura hesitates. She walks toward the net and hooks her fingers through the mesh. “I think . . . I think we have played enough for now.”

“Sure,” he says. “Something on your mind, _petite_?”

Laura shakes her head and runs her fingers through her hair. The sun shines off her hair; contrary to her belief, it does reflect color. He sees deep reds and dark browns.

“You okay?” he says, coming closer, dropping his voice.

She shrugs, impassive. Something’s bothering her, he can tell. Laura is usually not expressive; she’s serene. But right now she seems troubled.

“What is it?” He wonders if it was Julian’s letter. He quietly curses himself for having given it to her.

“I want—to take a walk.” She pulls her hand from the net and turns to face the water. Without another word, she sets off in that direction.

Remy follows her. He stays a few steps behind her, curbing his impulse to ask her once more what’s wrong.

When she gets to the edge of the water, she stops and stares.

He sidles up to her. “Pretty, ain’t it.”

She turns sharply and gives him a look. “Do you like teaching?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” he says, trying to make his voice sound as upbeat as possible. He pauses. “It’s, you know, important work.”

She continues to stare at him.

“It’s alright,” he admits, this time more quietly. “Feels like something I just fell into.”

She nods and looks away.

“Maybe I’m not the best guy for the job. Maybe I let Wolverine talk me into it before I knew what I was gettin’ myself into.” He looks out at the water. “I don’t exactly set a shining example for the mutant youth of America.”

“Move here,” Laura says. “Move to California. Live here instead.”

“Oh hon, I’d like to, but—I’m part of Wolverine’s crew, and I got responsibilities to the school—”

Laura turns to face him. “You are always asking me if I am happy here. Well, I am. But you ask me to move back to New York anyway, where I was never happy.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Remy says, “You don’t seem all that happy now.”

“You are the one who is not happy. So I ask you to move here, and you act as though it is out of the question. But when it comes to me and where I live, it’s a different story. Why I am the one who is expected to move to satisfy everyone else? Why am I the one who’s always expected to do what everyone else wants?”

“Laura.” He wants to reach for her. “I would never ask you to go somewhere you don’t want to go. If you’re happy here, then fine. But you seem so homesick.”

She stands in front of him. “I want you to move here, Gambit. You are the one who seems unsatisfied with your current situation, not me.” Her voice gets quiet. It’s almost swallowed up by the sound of the waves. “I want you to live here. Close to me.” Her eyes catch the steep plunge of a gull into the water, and then she turns her attention back to him. “I have few wishes, few fantasies for how I want my life to go. But when I think of how I want things to be, I think of you out here. And both of us together.”

His mind races. At this point, he’s not quite ready to acknowledge the full implications of what Laura is saying. He decides to address the practical. “Laura. It’s not as if I don’t want to move here. It’s that I _can’t_.”

“Yes you can. You could if you wanted to.”

“The team, the X-Men—I have to live where they are.”

“You could work with the Avengers.”

“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not? Wolverine is an Avenger.”

 _Well good for Wolverine,_ he wants to say. He also wants to say that his questionable past puts him out of the running for a spot on any other superhero team. (Hell, he’s lucky the X-Men are as accepting as they are—though he suspects it’s because they all have their skeletons.) But beyond that, he knows he could never cut it with the Avengers because, well, he can’t stand them. He can’t imagine hanging around with Steve Rogers. Or working with Clint Barton. What a shit show that would be!

But he can’t tell that to Laura. She wouldn’t understand. “ _Petite_ ,” he says. “You’re young. When you’re young you can uproot yourself as many times as you want. But when you get to be my age, and you got all these responsibilities . . . a job . . . it gets harder.”

She puts her hands on her hips and looks down. “Hard but not impossible.”

“What about you? Is this whole superhero-in-training thing really what you want to be doing? With your life?”

“Do not change the subject. We are talking about you.”

“Bear with me, this is related.” He fixes his gaze on her. “You want to do this? Let me put it this way. If you could do anything, what would you do?”

She opens her mouth. Then closes it.

He can’t tell her what he really wants to say because it would be depressing. All at once he can feel the weight of his age, all those years gone by. He’s not old—he knows he’s not old. But he’s not young either. He can’t wake up tomorrow and start new, shove his belongings into a trunk and just drive. Or he could, but eventually he would have to turn the car around and come home. And he’d have to answer to people.

He can’t tell her that life goes by quickly because she wouldn’t understand. He would not have understood if someone had told him that during that good Westchester summer. He was not able to see back then that life trickled by when you weren’t even paying attention; that twelve years felt like nothing until you looked back and realized—oh, shit. That was it.

“You could go to college,” he says to her. “That’s what you should do. Take time off. Get some schooling. College would help you figure all this shit out.”

“I do not have anything to figure out. College is not for me.” She gives him a pointed glance. “You did not go either.”

“Yeah, _petite_. And now I teach sex.” He raises his eyebrows. “Point taken, _non_?” He stares at her. Gives her a goofy grin for effect.

Her face relaxes. She looks like she’s trying not to smile.

And just like that, he has her back. 

***

Late in the afternoon they head to his hotel so he can check in. He takes a shower to wash off all the microbes he picked up on the plane. When he emerges from the bathroom, fully clothed, he finds Laura sitting at the desk reading. She’s reading the _Us_ magazine he picked up that morning on the plane. And she’s so serious about it. Like Logan, she reads whatever’s around. He smiles.

“See anyone you know in there?” he says.

She glances over her shoulder at him.

“You’re a California girl now,” he says. “Soon you’ll know all kinds of celebrities.”

She gives him the once-over. “You look nice.”

“I clean up well. You need to check in with the school?”

“They know I am with you,” she says, turning back around. “Gambit?” She pauses. “Can I stay here for the night? I already asked when I was signing out at school, and they said it was okay.”

“Sure. But what about your volleyball practice?”

“It is not until ten.”

“Okay,” he says. He imagines they’ll grab breakfast together. It'll be like last year. She might as well stay—they should wring out every last moment of their time together. Soon it will be Monday and he’ll be heading home. Back to the drab East coast. Back to the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning. Back to penises posted to his door and office hours and faculty meetings and rooms full of vindictive teenagers. Back to seeing Rogue every day without being able to talk to her. (Jesus, when did he get so pessimistic?)

He adjusts his jacket and grins at Laura. “Ready to go?” 

***

The comedian puts him in a better mood. The guy is funny, and he pokes fun of members of the audience without being cruel or distasteful. Remy and Laura sit in the middle of the club, so they’re safe. Remy works on two whiskey sours and Laura eats a basket of chicken wings.

He leans toward Laura and touches her arm. “You like this guy, huh? He’s funny.”

Laura just looks at him. She’s not frowning—just intense. She covers his hand with hers.

At the time, he’s not paying close enough attention. Or he’s paying attention to all the wrong things. He can’t yet see how this will end, how it will play out. And how he’s a part of it.

By the time they head back to the hotel, he’s loose and relaxed from the booze and from the comedy routine. He feels like telling Laura about some of the goings-on at the school—just as long as they don’t involve his own humiliations. “So that ‘Good Feeling’ song is currently everyone’s favorite,” he says as they pull into the hotel parking lot. “They play it morning and night. You can’t get away from it. It’s like a plague. The girls even made a dance to it. Don’t ask me to show it to you.”

“I won’t,” Laura says. She grins.

“Oh, she smiled,” Remy whispers.

“I smiled because children are funny. They are the same everywhere. No matter what school or what city. They enjoy themselves. They can forget.”

“You sound like an anthropologist,” he says, wanting to ignore the crux of what she just said. She’s a child too. But she doesn’t see herself that way. “Maybe that’s what you should study when you go to college.”

They make their way into the hotel and get on the elevator and ride to his floor. They get out and walk down the hall. No one else is around. When they were traveling together last year, they checked into a lot of hotels together. Sometimes he wondered what people thought—if they took him for a young-looking father or a much-older brother. Or something else entirely. In any case, no one asked.

Once inside the room, Remy removes his jacket and sets it on the chair. Laura moves past him and sits on the edge of the bed. She starts to kick off her shoes.

“You want anything?” he asks. “Room service? Mini-bar?” He bends over and opens the mini-bar, scanning the contents for the brand of booze he likes best.

Laura shakes her head. “Too expensive.”

“Too expensive” is his middle name. He’s never been thrifty. He twists off the cap and hums “Good Feeling” and empties the contents of a little bottle into a plastic hotel cup.

Laura rises from the bed. For a second she looks like she’s getting ready to head to the bathroom. Then she takes a step closer to him. She reaches for him. Snakes her arms around his waist and presses her face into his chest.

He almost loses his balance. He sets his cup down on the desk, nearly spills it.

Laura hangs on. Takes a deep breath. Remy closes his eyes and inhales her scent. Something he’s wanted to do since he got here.

She moves one of her hands up his back and he feels things shift right away. Things are changing. Life is spinning out.

“ _Petite_ ,” he murmurs. He whispers this into her ear. It’s not too late—if he pulls away, they’ll remember this only as a moment of unpremeditated awkwardness, a too-long good-night hug gone slightly awry.

Laura pulls back slightly, looks up at him. Slides her hand tentatively up his shoulder.

He cups her elbow with his hand. Trembles now, nervous. He can’t help it. She answers his anxiety by intertwining her fingers with his and holding him tighter. As if anything would keep him from shaking. And when she presses her mouth against his, he feels as though they’ve been kissing all along. Everything seems to fall into place.

He feels as though he’s watching himself, hovering somewhere nearby, having an out-of-body experience. But no. This is him, all him. He’s the one pressing one hand to the base of her neck, tracing her hairline, rubbing his thumb against her throat. He’s the one reaching up the back of her shirt. He whispers her name, hoping that this will get them both to stop.

Her mouth is beginning to feel as familiar as his own when Laura reaches for his belt buckle. She too is shaking, trembling a little, but this doesn’t make him want to stop. It makes him want to keep going as if to reassure her—as if to comfort her in the only way he knows how. _It’s okay_ , he wants to say. He holds onto her waist with one hand, reaches up the back of her shirt with his other hand and starts to unfasten her bra.

She breaks off their kiss, but only to pull her shirt over her head. After pulling her bra off and tossing it on the floor, she stands in front of him for a moment, naked from the waist up, and then closes the space between them, pressing herself against his shirt. As he holds her, he’s reminded once more of how young she is. She’s too young. “Laura,” he says. “I want—”

She reaches for his belt buckle again, undoing the front of his pants. He touches the crescent of skin beneath one of her breasts and is surprised when her stomach muscles jump. She’s ticklish.

He embraces her again, holding her head against his shoulder. It’s still not too late to put a stop to this. He’s hard now, and she’s moving her hand against him, and it’s still not too late. He knows she used to be a prostitute because she told him this, and he works hard to put the thought out of his mind. He can’t stand to think of her like that, can’t stand to think of himself in league with the other men who hurt her. No. The thought rises to meet him and he forces it down. He’s not like that, _this_ isn’t like that . . .

He kneels in front of her. Unfastens her pants and slowly undoes the zipper.

Minutes later they’ve shed the rest of their clothes. On the bed, she reaches for him and he settles on top of her. Again he gets the feeling that’s he’s both himself and not himself; he enters her and then pulls back to see her face. She’s okay, they’re both okay. But they’re not. Things are shifting, changing into something else. He’s picking up speed, hurtling toward another place and away from the life he built with her.


	3. Chapter 3

Remy doesn’t sleep that night. He dozes, waking up every fifteen minutes to check on Laura, who sleeps soundly beside him. He can’t believe what they’ve done.

He never wanted this to happen. Not in all the time he’s known her, not in a thousand years. Even if he knew they’d both live forever, he wouldn’t have wanted it then.

He should have seen the signs. All day he'd used his grief as a shield to keep himself from having to intuit what Laura was feeling. He’d been too wrapped up in his own little problems—his longing for the past, his sense of estrangement—to properly understand what she was going through. He’s an adult and she’s just a girl; he should have foreseen that she might confuse her feelings of homesickness with a desire to be as close to him as possible.

But these rationalizations do nothing to change what’s happened: he’s slept with an ex-student. His _friend_. A girl he’s responsible for. A girl who’s more emotionally fragile than he is. And there’s a bigger variable here, one he hasn’t fully acknowledged. What if she loves him? What if he loves her back? He definitely feels something for her, but he can’t tell if those feelings are all wrapped up in sex and guilt and protectiveness—a desire to return to the scene of their undoing.

He drifts off to sleep in the early morning. He hasn’t checked the clock in hours, but he knows it’s morning because the space around the heavy hotel-room curtains is starting to glow with pre-dawn light.

When he opens his eyes again the space is much lighter. Brilliant. Late morning. He gasps and rolls over. Laura’s not there.

“ _Merde_ ,” he whispers and levers forward at the waist. He scrambles to free himself of the covers and shuffle out of bed, knocking the lamp off the nightstand in the process. Doesn’t bother to pick it up. “Laura?” he calls. Quiet then. Again, this time a little louder. He’s already on his feet, staggering toward the bathroom. It’s empty. _Shit_.

He slaps the doorjamb and scampers back into the main room. He needs his clothes. There they are, still on the floor. _Pants. Shirt. Shoes_. Forget about socks and underwear—he can take care of that later.

He scans the room again as if she might have missed her on his first pass. _Where is she?_ He needs his car keys. His cell phone.

 _Car keys_. He finds them on the desk. _Cell phone_. Where the fuck is his cell phone? Oh shit, he lost it. He looks for the hotel-room landline so he can call it. But what is his number?

He takes a breath and decides he’s got to draw back the curtains to get more light. Then he sees something he didn’t see before. A piece of paper on the desk. Underneath it is—yes, his cell phone. And the piece of paper is . . . a note. From Laura.

Hands shaking, he picks it up and reads. _Gambit, I know you aren’t feeling well so I called one of the Avengers to come pick me up. Sleep well. I will talk to you later._

He turns and looks at the digital clock. 10:15. Jesus. But already his heart-rate is slowing down. He didn’t realize how badly he was panicking until the moment passed. His heart is beating in his fingers. The air around him feels as though it could pop—not a good sign for a man of his abilities. He wills himself to be calm.

He studies Laura’s note, looking for some kind of subtext. ( _That’s it?_ he thinks, rereading her spare, terse words. She didn’t even sign her name. Then he chides himself: _That’s enough_.) She had volleyball practice—he should have remembered. Hell, he should have gotten up in time to take her. If the Avengers didn’t think he was a bum before, they probably do now. Sleeping until ten. Unable to drive a girl a few miles up the road.

Of course, the truth of what happened is much more damning. He’s not just a lazy, degenerate drunk—he’s the sort of lazy, degenerate drunk who sleeps with a student. A lecher. A pervert. He can’t even contemplate what will happen if people find out.

And that’s it—now he’s done it. His stomach churns. He rushes to the bathroom and hangs his head over the toilet. Sweat forms on his upper lip. He wants to throw up but can’t. His body won’t allow him that one small act of mercy.

Minutes later he stands in the middle of his room downing a glass of water, wishing he had some aspirin. Oh God, Laura. He’s ruined everything. He tries not to think back to the times they’ve had, the experiences they’ve shared. Their friendship had brought the best out of him . . . and he’s ruined it by making such a stupid move.

He searches his mind, looking for signs, trying to find some kind of justification. Perhaps this—what happened between them—is not a big deal. Perhaps his angst speaks volumes about his having internalized all those Northeastern, Puritanical values. Things happen. Sex happens, and sometimes chemistry can’t be helped. He’s from New Orleans after all—a city with more lax, Mediterranean attitudes toward sexual relationships. Hell, half the population is probably a result of inappropriate relationships between masters and slaves. (Yeah, good luck flying that defense, he thinks. The I’m-just-a-product-of-a-feudal-society defense _._ )

He’s going to pull himself together and go over to the Academy. He’s going to apologize to Laura. He’s going to promise that this won’t happen again. He can still make this right.

 _This_. His eyes settle on the dresser. Laura’s things are there, so she must be planning to come back. Some pocket change. The check from Logan. A ticket stub. The letter from Julian, folded into thirds.

He goes over and picks up the letter. He knows he shouldn’t do this, but since when has that sweet conviction stopped him from doing anything? He unfolds it and reads.

_Dear Laura,_

_How are things in California? I hope they’re good. You haven’t emailed me back so I’m assuming you dont want to hear from me. I understand. But I still want to apologize. I’m sorry for the things I said, like when I called you a machine and said your incapable of feeling things. That was wrong of me. I now see that I treated you bad all along, took you for granted. I should of treated you better. I’m sorry._

_I’m also sorry for saying those things about Gambit and for implying that you and him were a thing. I now see how ridiculous I was. To think that. For fucks sake life is weird. He’s my sex ed teacher now. He’s a bad teacher and a hick but not really a bad guy. He cant keep students interest in class. But I can see why you guys are friends._

_Are you watching Walking Dead right now. Probably not. Its pretty good. Reminds me of Mr. Logan in 8 AM history class. Ha ha. Well I miss you and just wanted to say one more time I’m sorry._

_Yours truly,_

_Julian_

Remy refolds the note and sets it back on the dresser. He thinks, I have to talk to Laura. 

***

Half an hour later he’s wandering around the halls of Avengers Academy. He didn’t have any problem getting past security—all he had to do was show his X-Men ID—but he should have thought to get directions to the gymnasium. Or wherever they hold volleyball practice. Now he’s ducking in and out of empty rooms. Like he’s casing the place.

He peers through the window of a closed door and sees Clint Barton at a desk, a stack of papers in front of him. Remy’s first instinct is to duck, but Clint’s got some serious peripheral vision. Probably better reflexes than Remy too—at least at this time of day.

“Hey!” Clint says from the other side of the door. He gets up from his desk and jogs over, throws it open. He’s smiling. “Remy, nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too, _ami_ ,” Remy says, returning Clint’s serious-guy handshake.

“Are you looking for Laura?”

“Yeah, I was just—” Remy gestures to the hallway behind him. Clears his throat. “Quite a maze you got here.”

“The gym’s on the second floor. I’ll show you.” Clint points to the end of the hall and starts to advance in that direction. He walks the way a man is supposed to walk, Remy thinks. Sure, decisive stride. Arms at his sides.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Clint says, giving him the once-over. “Laura said you weren’t feeling well this morning. I drove over and picked her up.”

So the truth is worse than he imagined. Hawkeye is the one who actually dropped by his hotel, the scene of his crime. And Laura tried to cover for him by making up some bullshit lie—bless her—but now he’s fucked all of that up by coming to the school and not looking sick. He should have waited patiently for her to call.

Remy wonders if this conversation is about to turn into an interrogation. Does he need to be careful about what he says next? “Food poisoning,” he says. “I was in a pretty bad way earlier. And the jet lag doesn’t help.” (Wait, does jet lag even apply when you’re going from east to west?)

Clint glances over his shoulder. “You have to watch yourself in some of these restaurants out here. Koreatown especially. I could give you a list of places to avoid—mostly from firsthand experience. I nearly ended up in the hospital once.”

“Jesus,” Remy says.

Clint pushes open the door to the stairwell and starts taking three steps at a time. Remy scrambles to keep up with him. Usually he wouldn’t have a problem, but right now he’s feeling sluggish and awful. Guilt, he thinks. Not food poisoning.

Clint gets to the second floor and then pauses. “Actually, let’s go up two more flights. There’s a balcony on the fourth floor where you can see everything.”

Remy nods and hobbles after Clint.

“How are things in Westchester?”

“Fine.”

“Sounds like you guys have a lot going on. And, well, I should really thank you guys for sending Laura our way. She’s quite an addition to the school. You must have been sad to lose her.”

He nods.

“Not to rub it in or anything,” Clint says, turning to give him a half smile.

And there it is: that competitive Avengers bullshit.

“Believe me,” Remy says, gripping the railing. His annoyance gives him strength. “We just want Laura to be happy. Don’t care if it’s with the Avengers or in a convent or a traveling circus, _homme_.”

Clint seems a little chastened. “Of course.” He opens the door to the fourth floor. “She’s very, very good at competitive sports. But we’ve had to do some work with sportsmanship. It’s not that Laura doesn’t understand good sportsmanship—it’s that she doesn’t understand that not everything is a competition.”

 _Imagine that_ , Remy wants to say.

“She wants to keep playing when the other kids want to stop. We try to teach work-life balance here. That it’s okay to hang out. Read a book. Watch TV even. It’s an issue that a lot of superhumans struggle with. Well, here we are.” He pulls open another door and they step into a small room with a railing. Then Remy can see the gym below them, the net strung from one side of the court to the other.

The kids are all there, but he spots Laura right away. She’s wearing shorts and a tank top and poised in front of the net. Next to her stands some little girl in a space suit. She’s trying to get Laura’s attention, but then some other kid serves the ball and that’s it, they’re off. The kids swat it back and forth—almost ceremonially—until Laura, probably tired of being so patient, jumps up and slams it over the other side of the net. Point. Laura’s side claps. The other side groans. The kid who served—a boy—comes forward to pat Laura on the shoulder. “Way to go, Kinney.”

Tigra stands a few feet away from the court. “Good, Laura.”

Remy grips the railing. He tries not to be moved by the sight of Laura—her shiny black hair, delicate features, and thin, muscular build—but it’s too late. His brain floods with warmth. His eyes fill with tears. He knows there are several explanations for this physical reaction: he’s hungover, sleep-deprived, and stressed out. But that’s not what he thinks when he looks at her. He thinks _, I’ve fallen in love_.

“See?” Clint whispers. “She’s very good.”

Remy nods.

Laura picks up the sound of whispering and turns her head to look at the balcony. Her gaze lingers over them. Remy waves. He feels the air leave his lungs. Laura turns back to the game.

Remy’s knees buckle. He turns to find a chair.

“Hey man, you really don’t look so good.” Clint’s hovering next to him. “You want a glass of water?”

“Just somewhere to sit.”

“My office,” Clint says. “You can wait there.” 

***

Clint leads him to his office and then leaves him there. Alone. In nice soft light. Head pounding, he sits in a cushioned chair near the door and nurses a tall glass of water. He glances at the bookshelf and skims the title. _The Courage to Teach. Lives on the Boundary. The Academic Self._ At the Jean Grey School they call meetings about dildos. At Avengers Academy they think about, you know, pedagogy. Remy picks up a book and skims it even though he can’t focus.

Despite the fact that he feels like crap, his run-in with Barton reassured him. Clint didn’t suspect anything foul. He didn’t look twice at Remy, didn’t seem to think Remy was guilty of anything other than ingesting bad Korean food. And he didn’t seem to think it inappropriate that Laura spent the night with him at his hotel room.

Now Remy feels doubly depressed. No one would suspect him of such a crime because . . . because they think he wouldn’t do such a thing. He’s done some bad shit, but his crimes have never fallen into the category of moral indecency. Hell, everyone _trusts_ the relationship he has with Laura. They see him as a sort of surrogate parent, a kind and doting mentor. Unfortunately, he’s turned out to be something else entirely, something else that eludes their imagination.

He remembers Rogue’s reaction when she learned he was going to see Laura, how she was quietly cheered him on. Oh God, Rogue. What would she do if she found out about this? She would kill him. It wouldn’t matter that they’re not together anymore . . . she would still kill him. Of course, she’d have to get in line behind Wolverine.

He hears footsteps and half suspects that Barton will darken the doorway and put an arrow through his chest. _Pervert!_

“Gambit?” Laura says.

He jumps, clamors to his feet to find Laura standing three feet away. “ _Petite_ , are you . . .”

She’s already changed out of her gym clothes and she smells nice, like shampoo. She’s wearing a skirt.

“Are you alright?” he says.

“I am. Are you? You do not look well.”

“I feel awful . . .” _About what happened_ , he wants to add. He fights the urge to go to her, to throw his arms around her. “Laura,” he says, taking a step toward her.

She doesn’t move, and all at once he feels horrified—like he’s done irrevocable damage to the bond between them, worse than he initially imagined. Then she looks up at the corner. “Not here.”

He drops his arms. She’s right. The place is probably tricked out with cameras. “Where to?” he says. 

***

So they drive.

They leave the Academy and drive along a coastal highway—one of these highways the government is always talking about shutting down because it’s the cause of so many accidents. Remy imagines that they might just drive forever, up or down the coast. Where to? Canada or Mexico? Imagine what the X-Men would think if they never came back. Imagine the scandal he and Laura would cause.

But he’s getting ahead of himself. He’s still here. And Laura is in the car next to him, quiet and impassive as always. She seems no different than she did yesterday. He can’t bring himself to talk. He’s the one who’s changed. 

***

An hour later they sit in a café in some shopping center in Orange County. Remy drinks a cup of coffee, hoping it will kill his hangover. Laura does the same. Everything around him feels muffled. He wishes he could have another out-of-body experience.

“Gambit—”

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking up, meeting her gaze. “About what happened. Laura, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” she repeats quietly.

“It never should have happened. I’m—” He leans toward her and lowers his voice. “It was wrong. It won’t happen again.”

She looks down. Touches the handle of her mug, tracing it with her fingers. “I wanted it.”

“Mm,” he says, mid-sip. He lowers his mug and shakes his head. (So she’s rehashed the events and decided she wanted it. But her emotions are confused with her homesickness—and he knows what it’s like to use sex to chase away loneliness.) “No, _petite_. This, this—” He gestures to the space between them. “You’re lonely and sad. I understand. But what happened wasn’t right. You don’t want this. Believe me.”

“Don’t tell me what I don’t want.”

He decides to try a different tactic. “For someone like me . . . I know you don’t think of it this way, but I’m grown. I’m old and you’re young.” _I have Pavement albums older than you_ , he thinks. “A grown man can’t be with a young girl.” As soon as he utters that sentence, he recognizes how patronizing it is. She knows the dynamics here—he doesn’t have to tell her.

Laura seethes. “I am not a girl. You know this, Gambit. If anyone knows, it is you.”

“I know,” he says, rushing to amend what he’s just said. “I know you’re not . . . not a girl. But you’re still young. And I’m the adult here, and I owe you more. I shoulda stopped—”

Laura stands. Without warning, she walks away from the table. Remy sits there in her absence, shaken but not stunned.

Moments later he finds her outside in the bright afternoon sunshine. She isn’t gone; she hasn’t left him. She’s sitting on the hood of his rental car, feet propped against the curb, arms folded against her chest. The parking lot is mostly empty.

She doesn’t look up when he approaches. She looks so small, so sad. He wants to take her in his arms.

He lowers himself onto the hood of the car so he’s sitting next to her. For a long time they sit in silence. Laura tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear.

Minutes pass. Finally he leans over and looks at her. “How long? How long have you felt this way?”

She shrugs. Her mouth pulls into a frown. Then she looks up and stares straight ahead. “I do not know. Maybe since I came here.” She shifts her gaze to meet his. “I knew you would think it was wrong to be with me. You are right—I’m not of age. And I know that people would not condone a sexual relationship between us. But I wanted it. I’m—I’m sorry for wanting and for—”

“ _Non_ ,” he says, raising his hand. (If things were different, if this was yesterday, he’d put his arm around her.) “This ain’t your fault. You got nothing to apologize for.”

Laura licks her lips and looks down again.

“I’m not gonna hear apologies,” he continues. “I know you don’t wanna hear me say this, but you really are young. I’m not talkin’ about life experience. I’m talkin’ about chronological age. And when you’re young, shit happens. But when you’re my age, you got no excuse for your actions but your own stupidity. You got a bigger responsibility to yourself. Hell, to the rest of society.”

Laura waits out his little sermon. She folds her hands in front of her, looks down at her nails. “Do you think I did this to you because I can't help it?”

He snaps back to attention. “What?”

“I am the kind of girl who makes men want. I do not see it when it’s happening. Only after the fact.”

“Laura—”

“Other girls at school, they know. I have never told them about . . . but they know what I am. They do not trust me. They don’t like it when boys talk to me. Even if these boys are just friends. They become . . . so angry with me . . .”

He slides off the hood of his car. Oh, Jesus. This minefield of the adolescent heart. Laura’s been going through this trial by ordeal, and he hasn’t been paying attention.

“I have heard other kids say things when they think I’m not listening. That I’m a whore. And they’re right. How do they know? I never told them.” She pauses. “They understand something about me that I cannot help. This thing is a part of me. Like killing.”

“Oh, _petite_ ,” he says, standing on the curb. He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s not—” He doesn’t know where to begin. He can feel his thoughts colliding, his consciousness splintering into a few pieces.

She looks up at him, her face blotchy and anxious.

“Kid. Sex isn’t—you haven’t done anything wrong. _Nothing_.”

“I can’t help wanting.”

“No one can.”

“But you’re so upset. If sex wasn't wrong--”

He does what he should have done in the first place: he goes to her. He walks around to the other side of the car, puts his arms around her and pulls her to her feet. Her head fits right below his chin, and the wind blows her hair into his face. He smoothes it down. “I’m upset with myself, not you. No one can make a man do anything. Remember what we talked about?”

Laura’s folded up against him. She doesn’t believe him. Never has. They’ve had a few conversations about her having been a prostitute. Remy’s never gotten her to admit that she didn't ask to be exploited. Deep down inside, she still believes there’s something within her, sewn to her DNA, that makes her capable of the things that would debilitate most people.

“Second of all,” he says, “don’t let kids bring you down. Girls can be territorial. It’s not about you.”

She pulls back and peers at him. “You are the only one who sees me.”

What she means is that he sees _her_ and not Wolverine. And she’s right, and that’s what makes this whole thing so terrible. “I know,” he says. 

***

They have a low-key, quiet day. They go to the movies, sit inside a dark theater and allow themselves to be spirited away by mindless entertainment. The movie is an adventure flick, but it has a romantic subplot about a teenage boy and a teenage girl who get trapped in an underground chamber. The air is running out. They have to make a decision. Which one gets to use the oxygen mask?

Such things never move Remy, but today he’s different. He leans back in the seat and tries not to cry. Occasionally he tries shielding his face with one hand, but he knows it doesn’t matter. Laura can tell what he’s feeling.

When the young actor makes his longwinded, overwrought confession of love for the girl, Remy holds his breath. It’s been so long since he was that young. Without any warning, Laura weaves her fingers through his.

And that’s when he knows: this thing between them isn’t over yet.

The movie ends, the credits roll. Finally the music fades and the reel ends and the lights come back on. He and Laura sit there together. No one else is in the theater.

Minutes pass. Remy wonders if an usher is going to kick them out.

“I know we can’t be together,” Laura says quietly. “Logically, I know this.”

“I’d lose my job,” he whispers. “My spot with the X-Men. I’d be thought of as . . .”

“I would never tell anyone.”

Remy sniffs and sits up. “I don’t mean it like that.” He’s not going to be one of those child molesters who swears a young girl to silence. _Don’t tell anyone. This is our secret._

“We could be together and no one would have to know.”

Part of him is tempted by that idea. Yes, they could carry on a secret liaison under everyone’s noses. How transgressive, how energizing. It’s the age-old story of two lovers kept apart by society’s mores. But he’s old enough to know that such a thing would never work. He’d never escape his guilt. As it is now, he doesn’t know how he’s going to survive back in Westchester, having slept with her. He probably won’t be able to keep it under wraps. Like all criminals, he’ll eventually talk. And everything will come out. He’ll stand up and make a big confession, like a villain in a Shakespeare play. But his confession won’t be artful or cathartic—it will be lurid and awful.

But wait, he’s getting ahead of himself again. He needs to keep what they’ve done a secret as much for Laura’s sake as for his. “Secret relationships are never good, _petite_. Believe me, you don’t want it that way.”

He waits for her to say that he doesn’t know what she wants. Instead she says, “I will not always be sixteen.”

That’s the other option. He waits. Eighteen months is not a long time. But the thought depresses him. Instead of being the lecherous teacher, he’ll be the lecherous teacher who waits until his prize student is conveniently a day over eighteen before whisking her off to the Cayman Islands.

“All the more reason, _petite_ ,” he says. “All the more reason for you to find someone your own age.” He swallows. She really shouldn’t waste her teenage years on him. “I ain’t getting any younger.”

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t say it’s him she wants and not a boy. Doesn’t say what they both know to be true: this will happen again.


	4. Chapter 4

One more time. That’s it.

They spend the rest of the day in and around Los Angeles, seeing the sights, talking about anything but what happened. He even persuades her to visit a college campus, one of these Cal State branches built after the Second World War. The campus is peaceful enough, quiet because it’s Saturday and the students are commuters, but the buildings are big and functional. He thinks Laura should go to a better school, somewhere back east, but any college is a step in the right direction.

He wishes the admissions office was open. He’d get a representative to talk her into it, ply her with glossy brochures and the promise of class mobility. A different, better life.

“Oh, look _petite_ ,” he says, stopping in front of the social sciences building. He draws closer, staring into the glass windows. “Bet that’s where they have the anthropology classes.” He turns to look at her. “Promise me you’ll come back here and look around when it’s open, okay?”

Laura stands back from the building and stares up at it. Nods once.

They decide Laura should go back to the Academy to spend the night. Well, he decides. She concedes. “I left my things in your room, though,” she says as they speed down the highway in the car.

“I can bring them to you later.”

“I can get them now,” she says.

He nods in agreement as he signals to get off the highway. It would be easier.

When he flicks on the light in his hotel room he sees the maid has been there. All traces of evidence have been swept away. He wishes that life was like a hotel room—someone there to clean up your mess, pull your sheets tight, and make it look like you never existed. He ducks into the bathroom to take a piss.

When he’s finished, he washes his hands in the sink and tries not to look at himself in the mirror. The bathroom light is harsh, and he doesn’t want to be distracted by some new line or blemish. He’s getting to that point where he can’t just adjust his hair. He’s got to take inventory.

He leaves the bathroom and finds Laura at the window. She’s pulled the heavy curtains back. Dust motes float through the air. She turns her head to look at him and then turns back to the window. He leans against the wall, watching her. 

***

This time they’re not frenzied or nervous. This time they take things slow. He eases her onto the bed, opens her clothes. Plants kisses on her neck, her collarbone. Slides one hand to her waist.

This time he can’t blame his actions on a momentary lapse in judgment. This time is on him.

She tugs his shirt. He sits up and pulls it off. Then he settles between her legs again. Kisses the line of sweat between her breasts. Then her stomach. Then between her thighs. After a few minutes there he sits up again and lies down next to her. “Tell me what you want.”

She reaches for him, pulling him closer. He guides her on top of him and they stay there like that, her fingertips skimming his ribcage. She looks down at him, determined. She understands. With him she can do what she wants. He’s not a boy who will tell his friends, or who will shame her. She starts to move.

Minutes later she comes and he sits forward, pressing his chest against hers. He wraps his arms around her and comes too, buries his face in her neck. They stay like that for a long time, still joined, his hands cupping her shoulders, gripping her back.

***

The animals had left the fields. Early morning, Upper Midwest. Northern Minnesota maybe. Flat country, misty landscape, the wheat pulled into bundles. The train took a curve and shook him wide awake. Autumn already, he thought, gazing out the window. The hemisphere was shifting away from the sun, and the early frost was coming to claim the fields the animals had left behind.

He sat up. How long had he been asleep? And where was Laura?

As if on cue, Laura slid into the seat next to him. She pulled her backpack into her lap and unzipped it. Took out two sealed packages of cinnamon rolls and handed him one.

“Good mornin’,” he said, turning toward her. “How long you been up?”

“I never really slept.”

“It’s impossible to sleep in these seats,” he said. He wished he’d sprung for the train with sleeper cars.

This was their last trip together—a fact they hadn’t acknowledged. The X-Men were falling apart. Scott and Logan were circling their wagons. Remy’d already decided that he’d settle in Westchester, but Laura was still weighing her options. Even at that point, Remy knew what Laura hadn’t yet articulated: she wouldn’t stay with Logan. Best case scenario: she’d remain with the FF as their full-time babysitter.

A week after she recovered from that affair with the Whirldemon, he went to Laura and said, “Fuck it. Let’s get out of here.” And they road an Amtrak to Chicago. Remy told Logan that he needed to check up on a contact in Skokie, and that he needed Laura’s assistance, but that was bullshit. He just wanted to get away. He was running from the X-Men’s problems, hoping to stay placidly uninvolved.

When they finished in Chicago, he suggested to Laura that they keep moving west. She hadn’t disagreed. They bought train tickets. He loved the train, loved how you lost all sense of motion except when it stopped or hit a curve.

Remy propped his leg up on the seat in front of him and tore open the package. He ate the roll, waiting for the confectioner’s sugar to enter his bloodstream. “Need some coffee to wash this down.”

“I can go—” Laura started to get up.

“Nah,” he said, motioning for her to stay seated. “Wait until the next station. Then we’ll get somethin’ strong.” He wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. Glanced down at Laura’s book bag. “You unloaded that book, I noticed.”

Laura zipped up her backpack and put it on the floor under her seat.

“I gave you that book as a gift, y’know. Didn’t think you’d just give it away.”

The book was _The Adventures of Pinocchio._ He’d bought it for her at a bookstore in Chicago. Beautiful illustrated pages. Hardcover. She had thanked him very seriously and taken the book in both hands. But later that day, when he was buying tickets at the counter, her saw her out of the corner of his eye. She was bent at the waist, talking to a little boy. Then she crouched down next to the boy and handed him the book.

Now she didn’t make eye contact with Remy. She worked on one of her cinnamon rolls.

“If you didn’t want it you could have just told me. I woulda taken it back. But I saw you reading it everywhere you went.” Every time they ducked into a book store, Laura would pick up _The Adventures Pinocchio._ She read it in French. She read it in Japanese. She read it when she didn’t think Remy was looking.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you by giving it away.”

“Hmm.” Remy balanced his ankle on his knee. He was cranky. It was early and he hadn’t really slept. “Ain’t offended, _petite_. Just puzzled. It was a gift. For you.”

“But I have already read it.”

“But obviously you liked it enough to read it again and again. And that’s what a gift is for.”

“That boy had never read it. I can always check it out of the library.”

“But so can the boy. That book was meant for _you_.”

Laura crinkled up her wrapper and tucked it into her pocket. “I do not understand.”

“I think you do.” He thought a moment. Considered his words. “You’re not ignorant of social conventions. In fact, you’re pretty perceptive. You know what other people expect, and you know what they’re thinkin’ before they even realize it themselves. And you know what a gift is. You’ve gotten gifts before.”

Moments passed.

He said, “I think you feign ignorance sometimes. Easier that way. To not have to tell others what you’re really feeling.”

“You are accusing me of lying.”

“I’m sayin’ that you didn’t give that book away because you didn’t see the point of owning something you’ve already read. Which is to say”— He reached for a napkin but didn’t take his eyes off her. “Yeah, I don’t think you’re being truthful with me.”

Laura sat in the seat, her eyes fixed on the seat in front of her, her hands pressed to her lap.

“If you didn’t want the book, then fine. Or fine if you don’t like it or what not. Then you should have said, ‘Thanks, Gambit, but stories about puppets aren’t my thing. I’d prefer _The Hunger Games_. Or _Leaves of Grass_.’ And I’d have taken it back.”

Laura still didn’t move.

“Your reasons for not liking the book—okay, they’re personal. Ain’t gonna ask. All I ask is that you don’t bullshit me. We been friends for too long now.”

“You are angry,” Laura said quietly.

“I’m not. Trust me, if I was angry you’d know. I’d blow this train up.” He pulled a pack of cards from his jacket pocket and started shuffling.

Laura said nothing for several minutes. The train rolled along. Remy shuffled his cards and looked out the window.

“My mother read me _Pinocchio_ ,” she said.

Remy turned back to her. Her hands were clamped down on her thighs. Staring straight ahead, she slid her hands to her knees.

“She used to read it to me when we were alone. Or when it seemed like we were alone. It was like . . . a game we would play. Something just for us.” She glanced at him. “It’s the first book I remember reading.”

“Must be a good memory.”

She shook her head.

“No?”

She looked down at her hands.

They rode in silence for several minutes. He’d heard only snatches of stories about the mother—some stuff from Logan, some stuff from X. Just enough to know that he didn’t like this woman. But a mother was a mother. What could you say?

Remy felt bad. Jesus, he’d given her a _gift_. The point of a gift was that it was given freely. The receiver could do whatever the hell she wanted with it—re-gift, throw away, return, whatever. Why had he gotten so offended?

“My mother was not a good person,” Laura said suddenly. “I know this now.” She picked up her backpack and unzipped it. Started to rifle through it.

“She sounds complex.”

“She was not complex.” Laura paused. Then she continued shuffling her things. “I know complex. Wolverine is complex. You are complex. You both have done things that others might call bad. But you don’t hurt children.” She pawed through the contents of her bag—a hoodie, a keychain, a map, a receipt.

“What are you looking for?”

More scrambling, more rifling. She bent over and set her bag on the floor. Zipped it up. Her hair fell in front of her face like a curtain. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

He reached for her. As she got up to go, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back into her seat. “ _Non_.”

“Gambit—”

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

She tried to pull her arm away. He tightened his grip. With his other arm, he pressed her against the seat.

“Gambit,” she whispered. Furious. Eyes darting between him and the aisle. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“I will hurt you,” she said, this time a little more loudly. The car was nearly empty—no one was around to witness this struggle.

“You won’t,” he said. She was strong, but so was he. He gripped her upper arm.

“I will. Do not—” She lowered her voice to a low, menacing whisper. “Don’t test me.”

“Cut me if you want. But you’re not goin’ to the bathroom to cut yourself.” He gave her a quick tug. “Uh-uh. _Stop_ it.”

Her fury melted into desperation. Hair hanging in front of her face, she wrenched her arm away from him. He quickly adjusted, grabbing both her shoulders and pinning her to her seat. She reached for his hands, trying to peel them off.

They struggled again, a momentary scuffle of elbows and arms.

“Gambit—” Her voice sharper.

He wondered if he’d have to tackle her, pin her to the floor with his body. Before he had to find out, she relented a bit, went slack. But he didn’t let go, worried that she was trying to trick him.

“Feel this?” he said. He took his arm away but kept hold of her upper arm.

She tilted her face away from him, clamped her eyes shut. Breathing heavily now, her tears starting to crest.

“That’s what you’re supposed to be feeling. This is what happens when you let go." He knew the science behind what she did to herself: the first trick of adrenaline, the rush of endorphins. The way to displace your pain.

She looked back at him, eyes glassy. Cheeks damp.

“It’s easy to promise you won’t when you feel fine. But when it gets like this . . . .” _You need me_ , he thought. She could forgive him later.

Her skin was clammy. He thought, _She will be sick_. But she wasn’t. She slumped against the fabric of the seat. And then: quiet, racking sobs. She hadn’t cried like that in front of him before. _Maybe not ever_ , he thought.

He kept holding onto her arm. Outside the window, the scenery moved past: the yellow dawn of autumn, the last weeks of sun. 

***

The difference between being young and being not-young is this: When you are young, you think the good times are the rule, not the exception. You wait for the next good thing to happen to you. When you are not-young, you want to hold onto everything—good or bad—to slow the passing of time.

Remy’s got the window seat on the plane. He looks out onto the runway. _Non,_ he thinks. No, he doesn’t want to leave. He shouldn’t leave. He shouldn’t be walking away again, shouldn’t be leaving this girl with whom he made love just hours ago. Not when everything else in his life has gone to shit. Not when he has some kind of choice.

That morning he’d dropped Laura back at Avengers Academy before driving to the airport. He dreaded that moment. Everything about it seemed unfair and sad—like watching a movie cut short, or a championship game gone sideways.

He got out of his car and walked her to the door. He knew he should go into the Academy, have the little drive-by tour, the stop-and-chat with her teachers. But he just couldn’t. Let them think he’s rude. Rude is nothing compared to what he really is.

“Email me,” he said to her as they stood at the entrance. “Text me. But not about—”

“I know, Gambit.” She seemed annoyed. Then her face softened. “I’ll miss you.”

He hugged her, careful not to press her body too close to his. Someone was probably watching. Someone was always watching. He pulled away, touched a strand of her hair. “I love you. Be good.”

“I will.”

“Don’t work so hard. Don’t always spike the volleyball like you mean it.”

“But I do mean it.”

“I know.”

From the plane he sees palm trees. He rubs his knee. Swallows. He’s glad he can hide his face by looking out the window.

They’ve been airborne for several minutes when the flight attendant comes around, asking him sweetly if he wants anything to drink. He’s already got his credit card out. 

***

The day after he had the fight with Rogue, he went to the flower shop in Salem Center and bought a fifty-dollar bouquet. Huge arrangement. It took up the entire front seat of his car. He drove back to the mansion and parked the car in the driveway.

Tree branches and leaves littered the damp ground. There’d been a nor’easter the night before, a nasty early-autumn storm that dumped a few inches of rain before ripping up the coast and spinning out to sea. That perfect Westchester summer was really over.

Logan and Kurt were clearing the trees branches away, putting them in bags and trundling them to the front of the house for the garbage truck to pick up. Kurt was teleporting around the yard. He’d gather a handful of branches and then reappear next to Logan, dumping them in a pile for Logan to bundle.

Logan watched Remy get out of his car. “You wanna jump in here, Gumbo? Help us with this clean up?” Voice edgy. As always.

Kurt appeared next to him. “Shh,” he said to Logan. He blinked at Remy’s flowers. “He has other things on his mind.”

Logan and Kurt exchanged a knowing glance, and then Logan bent over to pick up a branch that was too large to fit in a bag.

“Be out in a few minutes, _amis_ ,” Remy said. “Got somethin’ to take care of.”

“Good luck with that,” Logan said.

“Good luck,” Kurt said, smiling. Ever the optimist.

Remy went inside, bounded up the stairs. Found Rogue’s door and knocked twice.

Rogue opened the door and glanced at him wearily, at the flowers.

“Can I come in?”

She paused for a second. Then left the door open for him to follow her into the room.

Once inside, he shut the door. “I’m sorry, _chère_ ,” he started to say. Just the first line of the apology he’d rehearsed on the way back to the mansion.

She held out her hands to accept the bouquet. “These are pretty,” she said. “I’ll have to get some water.” She sank into the chair next to her desk.

He lowered himself onto her bed.

She looked at the flowers, took one stem between her fingers. “How long? How long are we gonna keep doin’ this?”

“I’ll change,” he said. “I’m gonna change. I promise now.” This was just one part of the apology he’d constructed. He couldn’t remember the rest.

Her eyes met his. They were dark and red-rimmed. She didn’t say _okay_ or _you better try_ or _I’m not gonna wait forever_. Instead she said, “What’s gonna happen to us?”

And the moment stretched in front of him, and he had no answer. The future was there, approaching. Everything they were going to become was right in front of them. At that moment, they could still see into each other. What they did not know was that each would become unknowable—a body of water that was deep and mysterious, a surface that only reflected light. 

***

When he arrives back at the school, it’s dark and cold. The campus glows, lit by windows and outdoor lamps. He tries not to shiver as he slings his bag over his shoulder and makes his way to the entrance. Once again, he’s chilled by the idea that someone knows what he’s done, that everyone will convene in the foyer, an angry mob ready to throw him out of the country.

But when he steps inside he’s greeted by silence, not an angry mob. He checks his watch. It’s not that late. Where is everyone?

He steadies himself against the doorway and makes his way to the kitchen.

Victor and Santo sit side-by-side on some barstools, sipping cokes and chatting. They fall silent when he strolls into the room.

“Where is everybody?” he asks.

Santo shrugs.

“Mr. Logan is downstairs,” Victor says. “Something’s going on with Julian.”

“We don’t know what,” Santo adds. “Don’t ask us.” Which means that they know.

He drops his duffel bag and goes downstairs. He can hear Logan from the stairwell.

“This is bullshit,” Logan says. He raises his voice. “Don’t—don’t even look up. Give me that duct tape.”

And then Julian says something that Remy can’t make out.

“I don’t wanna hear your mouth running.”

Remy turns the corner to find Logan standing in Julian’s doorway. “Pick up that shit,” he’s saying. “Put it outside. And nowhere near the building. Now.”

Logan turns his head sharply to stare at Remy. “Thanks for gracing us with your presence, Gumbo. It’s about time.”

“What’s going on?” Remy sidles up to Logan. He wishes he’d just stayed away. Spent the night driving down country roads and listening to his mix tape.

“What’s going on?” Logan repeats. He nods at Julian’s room.

Julian’s kneeling on the floor, picking up the stray items that litter his room. Sandwich wrappers and soda cans. School papers and dirty clothes. He looks up at Remy and levels an aggressive stare. Then he scratches his chest with his prosthetic hand.

“The little shit’s got _bedbugs_ ,” Logan says. “He’s had them for over a month. Since that time he stayed in the city. And he’s known about it for a while and didn’t bother to tell anyone.”

Julian leans back on his haunches. “I can hear you.”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Logan says.

“Logan,” Remy says.

“The whole floor is infested. Everyone down here has them now. Idie’s got them. Broo’s got them. And the whole goddamn time he knew, and he never told anyone—”

“ _Dieu_ ,” Remy whispers. “Where’s Kitty?”

“Taking the day off. Convenient, huh?”

“I’m not the one who brought them back,” Julian says.

“You can pack up your shit and move back to Utopia for all I care. See how long it takes Summers to kick your ass to the curb.”

“Logan,” Remy whispers again.

“Don’t,” Logan says, raising a hand. He looks at Remy and sniffs. “Jesus Christ, are you drunk?”

Julian glances up. Then he looks back down as his trash pile, knowing. At least he’s not Wolverine’s only punching bag.

But Remy doesn’t care. Logan’s giving him just a fraction of what he deserves.

“I’ll help him,” Remy says.

“You do that. I’m tired. I’m going to get a drink.” But he doesn’t move. “I’ll call an exterminator tomorrow.”

“Might not work,” Remy says, venturing into Julian’s room. “I saw a special on Animal Planet. Regular treatments don't do a thing. Bedbugs always survive. You have to get this expensive heat treatment where they heat up every inch of the building. Apparently that’s the only thing that really gets rid of 'em.”

Logan waits a beat. Then he erupts again. “Do I look like I’m fucking made of money, Gumbo? You know how big this place is!”

Again, Julian gets a smug, knowing look on his face.

Remy bends over and slips a pair of jeans into a plastic bag.

“Put his clothes outside,” Logan says. “We’ll have to launder everything separately, and I’m not doin’ that now.”

Julian opens his mouth to protest, then closes it.

“I’m leaving,” Logan says.

“The building?” Remy says.

“The room. I’ll be upstairs.” He pauses. “How’s X?”

Remy stuffs Julian’s fleece into a bag. “She’s good.”

Julian kneels on his floor, gathering up a bunch of papers. He doesn’t react when Laura’s name is mentioned.

“Good,” Logan says. “Glad to hear.” He disappears from the doorway.

Remy kneels on Julian’s floor, collecting his old moldy socks into a bundle. He hopes he doesn’t see a bedbug. He’ll have to delouse before he goes upstairs.

Julian doesn’t say anything, but Remy can tell he’s not sorry. That’s what’s so infuriating about Julian—he’s never sorry. Then again, he’s just a kid. His crimes are just minor infractions, stupid stuff—bringing in bedbugs, making his teachers unhappy.

Remy’s vision blurs. He keeps his back to Julian. They don’t talk to each other as they pick up Julian’s room. Remy remembers what Julian wrote about him in the letter—that he was a lackluster teacher but not guilty of anything else.

It’s been hours since Remy last saw Laura and yet he knows it’s over. It’s over, it’s over. That was all the time they’ll ever really have together, and he didn’t realize it at the time. They don’t have a future together—how could they? She’s sixteen. He loves her. He wants her to find somebody else, and he loves her. Oh, how could this happen? How could he let this happen?

“Mr. LeBeau,” Julian says.

Remy doesn’t turn. His eyelashes are wet, his face hot.

“Mr. LeBeau.” Julian scuttles around so that he’s crouching beside Remy. He holds out Remy’s CD. “Before I forget, I want to give this back to you.”

It’s _OK Computer_. Remy swallows and looks up at Julian. Their eyes meet for a brief second. Then Julian looks down.

Remy puts his hand on the CD. Then he touches Julian’s wrist, gently nudging his hand away. “You keep it,” he says.


End file.
